A man lies face down and face up on a table while masseurs work warm oil and medicinal starch into his skin. The poem follows the massage part by part, from feet to neck, and the details are frank: the thin loincloth, his big buttocks, the sore swelling on his hip that makes him groan in both pain and pleasure. He half expects to be aroused, and he isn't, which keeps the scene bodily rather than sexual.
Then the speaker imagines watching himself from above, a "slab of meat" on a plank. Instead of disgust, this distance brings tenderness. He sees his body as a lifelong companion that has shared every pleasure and pain with him, scars and wrinkles included. The title, "Narcissus," suggests self-love, but here it feels gentler than vanity: it is acceptance. The mood is warm, relaxed and unembarrassed, and it ends quietly on "I look at myself with great kindness."